Page 54 of Only One Tour Bus

Why haven’t I thought of this before?

Oh, right. Because no other tour leader affects me as much as Callum does. Even before he begrudgingly showed that he cared for me, in his recalcitrant way, he was making me react to him. There’s something about him that makes me want to smother him in glitter to lighten him up. Or at least do the metaphorical equivalent of that. It’s a strange, contrary reaction to have, but I can’t deny it.

Like I predicted, twenty minutes was not enough time to deal with all those emotional complications and get ready for this not-date, maybe-date, Schrödinger’s date.

And I’m not going to kill the date by asking what it is.

But I don’t have time to worry about all that, because Callum knocks on my door while I still have an unzipped dress and a makeup-free face that looks like I’m recovering from an illness. Which I am, but I don’t want to look like it.

“I’m coming,” I yell at the door. I try to think about what I can do in the next thirty seconds to make this better, but I can’t think of anything. Might as well face the music.

“Hi,” I say with a smile once Callum’s face is revealed.

“Do you always answer the door undressed?” Callum’s face is fierce as he pushes his way into the room and closes the door behind him. Apparently before anyone else can see my shame.

I roll my eyes. “No. I was pretty sure I knew who it was. The same person who did not give me enough time to get ready when he told me he was coming back in twenty minutes then ran away before I could negotiate those terms. So he gets what he gets.” I turn and present my back. “Since you’re here.” I tug at the top of the dress so he gets what I need.

He sighs deeply and then I don’t hear anything for a while. It’s so quiet I wonder if he turned himself into vapor and slid out under my door. But then I turn my head back and see him moving slowly behind me.

So slowly that even the tortoise would tell him to get a move on already.

I turn back around so as not to seem too eager, which means I have no idea where he is or when he’s going to touch me. All I can do is stand here, waiting in anticipation for his touch, and how it’s going to make me feel.

If it’s anything like when he kissed me, it’s going to go straight to my head faster than the cold medication I’ve been pounding for the last day and a half. It’ll make me feel just as happy, like I’m floating on a magical cloud of…whatever they put in cold medication to make me not care that I haven’t brushed my hair in days.

Oh, shit. My hand goes to my hair, and I sag in relief to find that I did indeed brush it. Take that, meds.

Callum finally touches me. Even though he just grabs the zipper of the dress I’m almost wearing, he can’t avoid brushing against exposed skin of my back. Thanks, dress. What a wingwoman.

Initially, I jerk forward a bit, even though I knew the touch was coming. But even expecting it, there’s no way to adequately prepare for it. No way to stop the shiver that involuntarily arises as his fingers slowly drag up from my lower back to the base of my neck. By the end of the ordeal by flesh, my back is leaning into the touch.

Before I can faint from the lust, Callum’s magic fingers leave me, and I stumble a bit, chasing after his hands.

But it’s a fortuitous—if embarrassing—stumble, because his hands are back on me. My shoulders this time, and with a lot more pressure than when he was zipping me up. And I didn’t even have to beg, which was the next plan of action.

“Are you all right? We don’t have to go if you’re still feeling a wee bit sick.”

I have two choices here. I can stay where I am and blame being ill, which means he’ll probably leave and I’ll spend the day alone watching French television. But he won’t wonder about my motives. Or I can move away and say I’m fine, which will probably make him wonder why I stumbled, but we go gallivanting around Paris for the rest of the day.

As much as I want to save face, I want to spend the day with him more. And in a place that has fresh air, not this hotel room that I haven’t left in too long.

So I step away. “I’m fine.”

“If you’re still sick⁠—”

“No. Remember the thermometer? It said I was green. Green means I can live my life. I’ve just been in the bed too long; I must have sea legs for the horizontal…bed legs. Have to get used to walking again.”

“Just because you aren’t feverish, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t still take it easy so you can fully recover. I don’t think it means you can go out and run a marathon.”

“We aren’t going to run a marathon. Nor would I run a marathon even if I was in the best health. Because running is the devil and a runner’s high is propaganda made by the shoe companies to sell more shoes and perpetuated by runners who don’t want to admit they bought the shoes for nothing. You know what a real high is? Pot. They should just do pot.”

“Your mind is a terrifying place.”

“Hmm. Must be the cold medication. Let’s go explore.” I grab my purse, leaving the backpack since I’m not tour mom today. But I do have my phone, because even though my babies are on their own, mothers are never truly off duty. Even tour moms.

“If you start to feel knackered or sick again, we can come back. You know we’ll both be in this city again. And probably soon. There’s no need to push it today.”

“Sure, sure.” But I won’t be back in Paris with Callum. Well, I could be, if this turns into a thing. I smile at the thought and thread my arm through his.